Hidden Maps

      It was early evening
when you carved hidden maps
      above my chest.

The cool beak
      of rain
was on your little finger.

      There were black linens
in my throat

      and black willows
in your eye—

      those, you could not see.

I could not see
      why I loved you.

And there were poems
      for you
I could not write.

      But it was late—

and your neck slept
      in my hands.

Nick Corvino has no credentials he’d care to note. He enjoys writing, and should do it more often.

This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

1 Response to Hidden Maps

  1. Yes, Nick. Write more often. This one is well done.

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